


Your Handprint All Over

by cathybites



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, New York Rangers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-21
Updated: 2011-04-21
Packaged: 2017-10-18 10:00:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/187704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cathybites/pseuds/cathybites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>because I adore them, but not as much as they adore each other.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Your Handprint All Over

**Author's Note:**

> because I adore them, but not as much as they adore each other.

The first thing Brandon really notices about Zherdev is his hands. It's hard not to zero right in on them when all Brandon's heard is how amazing they are - gifted, talented, magical. He eyes them as Coach Pearn leads Zherdev around the room, making the introductions. Slimmer than Jagr's, more graceful than Shanny's, they don't look like anything special. They don't look like a goalscorer's hands.

Then Coach Pearn is in front of him, saying, "Dubi, this is Nicky," and Zherdev's right hand slides into his. The palm and the underside of his fingers are covered in calluses, just like every hockey player Brandon has ever known, and they catch and hold against Brandon's own. The skin on the other side, though, is baby-smooth. Soft and even, and Brandon's thumb glides easily over it. He can't help it, strokes the skin again just to feel the warmth there, and Zherdev sucks in a sharp breath, hand twitching, but he doesn't pull away.

\---

Pre-season doesn't count for much. Not anymore, not when Brandon is sure of his spot on the team. That doesn't mean he won't play as hard, or not celebrate each goal like it means something in the long run.

Not just his own, either. He knows what it's like to score that first time in the Garden, to hear the crowd get behind you. And when Nicky gets a shorthanded one in past Clemmensen, Brandon screams louder than anyone else in the place. He skates straight for Nicky, who turns, arms open wide for Brandon to jump into. "That was fuckin' amazing," he says, forehead bumping against Nicky's visor.

Nicky just grins. His hands rest against Brandon's hips. They're buffered by gloves and pads, but the awareness of them is sharp and sudden, a quick bolt of heat that races through Brandon. He pictures them against his bare skin, tanned fingers curling into him. Swallowing hard, he starts to slides back, but Kalinin and Potts are there, pulling them together for a group hug.

Brandon concentrates on Kalinin congratulating them, on the goal song blasting through the speakers, on the chill of the air that's just now creeping along his skin. On anything but the burn of Nicky's hand at the small of his back.

\---

Brandon never says anything about it, never lets on what he's thinking about when Nicky's hands are waving around, fingers flitting through the air, punctuating and embellishing his speech. Or when they're holding a game controller, curled around the plastic, jabbing at the buttons and clutching hard. He's learned to keep his expression neutral when Nicky wraps a hand around his wrist to get his attention, or when a hand grabs at his head, pulling him in for a congratulations.

He watches Nicky lace up, fingers moving deftly to tighten his skates. Brandon ducks his head but keeps watching, sly glances from the corner of his eyes as Nicky tugs on his laces and knots them. He drums his fingers against the floor, and it's too easy for Brandon to imagine them doing the same against his skin, beating out a rhythm as Nik moved against him.

Doesn't say anything, but he can feel the heat rush to his face and he looks away quickly, turns his attention back to his own skates.

When he looks up again, Nicky is on his feet, ready to head out. He walks to the door, and when he walks by Brandon, he reaches out. Nothing more than his thumb sliding acros Brandon's jawline, but it's enough.

\---

People always talk about snipers having soft hands, but Nicky's hands are anything but. They're hard and demanding, pushing Brandon's shirt out of the way, tugging his jeans down, pulling and prodding until Brandon is exactly where they want him. Nicky kisses messily, mouth open and wide, but his hands move precisely. They roam over Brandon's body slow and deliberate, learning all the spots that make him gasp and arch, driving him to the edge and reeling him back.

When Brandon finally begs, hands twisted in the sheets and heels digging into the mattress, Nicky wraps one hand around his cock. He drags his fist up slowly and laughs when Brandon swears. But before he can complain, Nicky's grip tightens, quickens. He brings his other hand up, fingers brushing over Brandon's lips. It's the lightest bit of contact, but Brandon feels it like a live current going through him, and he comes undone.

\---

He wakes up in the middle of the night, limbs heavy with a bone-deep satisfaction. There's a moment of confusion; then Nicky stirs next to him and Brandon flushes, remembering. He settles back in bed, and Nicky moves closer, throws an arm over him. His hand is warm against Brandon's side, fingers curling possesively. It feels good - _right_ \- and Brandon relaxes, drifts back to sleep.


End file.
